Salem stumbled through the haze of smoke and dust, his boots scuffing over broken cobblestones. The city of 1971 roared around him, alive with fire, shouts, and the ragged pulse of history bleeding through every street. He had landed in the revolution's heart, the air thick with fear, hope, and the scent of something acrid that made his throat burn.
"Okay… okay, think," he muttered, trying to orient himself. His journal wasn't here. His tools, his clues, his notes—they were all gone. Just him, the chaos, and the whispers of the Writer, still tugging at his mind like a mischievous phantom.
"Oh, Salem, always so dramatic. You know, some protagonists would cry. But not you. Not yet, anyway."
He scowled. "I'm not crying. I'm… assessing tactical options."
"Sure, sure. Tactical. Keep telling yourself that while children run for their lives."
The words stung. Salem's eyes darted to a group of kids ducking behind rubble, their terrified faces hauntingly familiar. Children he hadn't met yet, lives he hadn't lived yet. The burden of knowing, the burden of influence, pressed against his chest like a vice.
A sudden clatter made him spin. A shadow lunged out of an alley, and Salem instinctively rolled aside. When he looked back, a figure—slightly translucent, almost like a memory—stood there. Older him. Scars etched across his face, eyes hollow yet glinting with recognition.
"Do it differently this time," the older Salem rasped. "Don't repeat my mistakes."
Salem shook his head. "I'm not you. I'm not supposed to be. I—"
Before he could finish, a gunshot cracked through the air. The older version vanished like smoke. Salem froze. Every step, every breath, every choice now carried consequences heavier than he had ever imagined.
The street bent. Buildings flickered as if they were nothing more than ill-constructed sets. He wasn't just in the past—he was in a warped version of it, a draft, a sketch, an echo of history. And the virus he carried—a ghost of future pandemics—whispered through time like a parasite, reshaping events before they had fully existed.
"Don't forget," the Writer's voice purred, "you're not just here to survive. You're here to… perform. History expects drama."
Salem groaned. "I didn't sign up for a performance review."
"Protagonist privilege. Now run."
He bolted. Down twisted alleys, past flickering buildings, around corner after corner where shadowy figures—soldiers, civilians, even himself in various guises—emerged and dissolved like bad CGI. Every encounter was a risk. One wrong interaction, one word out of place, and the future could warp beyond recognition.
A child tripped in front of him. Instinct kicked in. Salem reached out, catching them mid-fall. Time pulsed. Reality shivered. The boy's eyes widened, reflecting not only fear but something… more. A recognition. A memory that hadn't yet occurred.
"Congratulations, hero," the Writer quipped. "You've triggered your first paradox."
"Great," Salem muttered. "I'm making history worse. Fantastic."
The street twisted again. Now he was in a hospital room, flickering between 2020 and 1971. Patients coughed, revolutionaries shouted, sirens screamed—all layered atop one another. His head throbbed. The walls around him bled, blurred, twisted. Every second he lingered, reality frayed further.
"Salem, darling, you're doing wonderfully," the Writer cooed. "Chaos, confusion, ethical dilemmas—perfection. And don't forget the fourth wall. They're watching, you know."
Salem's eyes narrowed. "I swear, if you don't leave me alone…"
"Oh, I will. Eventually. But not yet. There's more fun to be had."
He pressed on. Every step through this fractured city forced him to choose: intervene or observe, save or ignore, act or hesitate. Each decision sent ripples through the timelines, knocking over dominoes in futures yet to come. Children he saved might unleash unforeseen consequences. Battles he avoided might erase entire lives. Every choice felt like walking a tightrope over a chasm of infinity.
Then came the hallway. A corridor that had no right existing in the middle of a war-torn city. Doors lined either side, glowing faintly. Salem recognized it—The Hall of Drafts—but here, it wasn't a neat bureaucracy. It was raw, alive, chaotic. Doors opened and closed on their own. Shadows of himself and others flickered behind them, glimpses of alternate paths he hadn't taken yet.
A voice—older, colder, amused—echoed:
"Every choice you make, every path you take… all fragments of you. And all of them are watching."
Salem swallowed hard. The weight of the multiverse pressed down on him. He had crossed centuries, carried diseases forward and backward, altered history, and yet… he hadn't even begun to understand the scope of his influence.
And then, a single door floated in the center. Red, glowing, impossible. A note scribbled across its surface in jagged letters:
ENTER AND EVERYTHING CHANGES
"One path," the Writer whispered. "Your choice, Salem. And yes, the readers are judging."
Salem stared. He felt the pull, the undeniable lure of action, of chaos, of history in his hands. One step forward, and timelines would fracture, history would bend, and the multiverse would watch in suspense.
He drew in a deep breath. His laugh—manic, terrified, exhilarated—echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the doors.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what happens if I stop playing nice."
With that, he stepped through the red door. The world folded, twisted, and shattered into fragments, each one whispering promises of chaos, revelation, and the uncertain future that awaited him.